


Waving a Sword Around and Going Places We Shouldn't

by violasarecool



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Arcane Warrior, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Dalish Elves, Dragon Age: Inquisition Multiplayer, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 20:47:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20180473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violasarecool/pseuds/violasarecool
Summary: Arahel is a mage who uses a sword; many Dalish find this laughable, or at least, impractical. So they're not expecting to meet another Dalish mage who does the same.





	Waving a Sword Around and Going Places We Shouldn't

It was late in the afternoon, and the sun filled Skyhold's open spaces like water, seeping across the dirt-trodden ground and searing Arahel's eyes. They turned a little more, angling their body away from the sun as they took another sweep at the training dummy in front of them, movements quick and sharp. 

Then, they slowed, reaching out with their magic until the world around them began to shimmer—the Fade, touching into the physical world in a way they hadn't experienced since they'd left for Skyhold.

"You use the Dirth'ena Enasalin," came a voice, and Arahel started, the world flashing back into focus as their concentration broke.

An elven man stood a few feet away, white hair falling around skin even darker than Arahel's, a variation on their own vallaslin lining his face—June, god of crafts. Arahel's hands tightened uneasily on their sword; they'd had enough disapproval from their _own_ clan's craftsman. "What about it?" they said warily.

To Araharel's surprise, the man's eyes crinkled in a gentle smile. "Easy, Da'len," he said, "I'm not here to pick a fight. Besides," he reached up and unsheathed what Arahel now realized was his own sword, magic lighting its length. As it did so, a mark on his arm lit up—a First's tattoo, the lyrium in the ink shimmering briefly before the magic flickered out of the sword.

Arahel stared, mouth open. "You're..."

"Cillian," the man said, holding out a hand as he replaced the sword with his other. "Of clan Ralaferin."

"Arahel, clan Lavellan," they replied, noting the look of recognition at the clan name before they shook hands. "You're First? _And_ an arcane warrior?"

"Ah," Cillian glanced down at his arm, eyes falling on the faded lyrium tattoo, "not anymore." He glanced up at Arahel. "But from what I've heard, _you_ are."

"No," Arahel said firmly. "Liana is First. I'm not... I won't take that from her."

Cillian gave them a pensive look. "Liana—You speak of the Inquisitor. She can't be doing much First-ing while fighting Corypheus."

Arahel snorted. _First-ing._ "The Breach is what's important right now," they shrugged. "You must think the same thing, or you wouldn't be here."

"Ah, but I am not First to my clan. But—" he added, as Arahel opened their mouth to give a sharp retort, "Neria _is,_ and she is also here." He gave Arahel a resigned smile. "You're right, of course. The Breach threatens us all."

"Neria," Arahel said, giving Cillian a curious look, "she replaced you as First?"

"After a time, yes," Cillian said.

"Then you understand why I _can't_ replace Liana."

"I think," Cillian said slowly, "that perhaps our situations are a little different. I was the one to approach our Keeper and ask to seek my own path. You seem to believe Liana would not wish to give up her role, whereas I am quite happy that Neria found her place."

"Oh," Arahel said quietly.

"Now, don't you make that sad face," Cillian said, wrinkling his nose, "did I not just say our situations are completely different?"

"A _little_different, you said," Arahel mumbled, and Cillian laughed.

"Aren't you a quick one?" His smile softened, and he patted Arahel on the shoulder. "Don't you worry; creators willing, your Keeper will see sense and not try to force you into something you don't want. You just need to give it time."

Arahel shrugged. "I hope you're right."

"And if she doesn't, you just tell me," Cillian said with a wink, "I'll be sure to give her a choice word or two!"

"Thanks," Arahel said dryly. They lifted the end of their sword absently, giving Cillian a sideways glance. "You have time to talk; I don't suppose you have time to fight?"

"Of course," Cillian said, reaching back for his own sword. "Would you care for some tips from an old man?"

"Yes," Arahel said immediately, "_Elgar'nan_, I've never even _met_ another arcane warrior."

Cillian nodded. "That makes the both of us. I myself learned the path from an ancient shrine of our people." He darted forward, limbs flashing into motion with a speed Arahel hadn't expected—they barely brought their sword up in time to block.

"A shrine?" Arahel asked, sweeping their sword into a wide swing that Cillian easily sidestepped, "like, it's still around?"

"Arms closer to your body," Cillian said, sword-arm snaking out to tap Arahel with the blunt of the blade. Arahel made a noise of frustration. "And it was long-abandoned when I encountered it—weathered, but still standing. Why, how did you come to learn the Dirth'ena?"

"We found notes in the Fade. Memories. Didn't know how old." Arahel grunted as their sword smacked against Cillian's, and again, parrying back and forth.

"Better," Cillian said approvingly, "you're not half-bad. We?"

"Liana."

"Ah." They broke apart, breath coming shorter now as they circled. "That's rather incredible, you know. Most people have trouble finding anything in the Fade, let alone using it to learn a forgotten discipline."

"Keeper Deshanna doesn't seem to think so." Arahel threw themself forward; Cillian raised his sword, then disappeared, reappearing a moment later on Arahel's other side. 

Cillian tapped Arahel's shoulder with one hand. "Is that why you're not using it?"

"What?" Startled, Arahel swung wide, but Cillian was already gone. They narrowed their eyes against the bright sunlight; they could just about make out the shimmering form of Cillian, straddling the Fade. "I thought we were sparring."

"So did I," came Cillian's voice.

Arahel sighed, took a deep breath, and reached out for the Fade.

It came quicker this time, a green shimmering landscape that settled over Skyhold like weave of a translucent fabric. Cillian stood a few feet away, his form wavering between dreamscape and reality. "Welcome back," he said.

"Home sweet home?" Arahel joked.

Cillian's mouth tugged up in amusement. "Are you a spirit, now?"

"Maybe." As they moved closer, something occurred to Arahel—"Can we even keep fighting, halfway through the Fade?" They glanced down at their sword, then back up at Cillian. "Won't we phase through each other?"

"I don't know!" Cillian said cheerfully. "Shall we find out?"

Arahel gave a low laugh. "Alright," they muttered. They circled back in, gripping their sword tightly. Cillian moved first this time, a wide sweep that Arahel sidestepped; he let his sword arm continue the arc, swinging back around, and this time Arahel met him in the middle, swords crashing into each other with undeniable solidity.

The sound reverberated faintly across the wavering landscape.

"So that's a yes," Arahel grunted, muscles straining as he struggled to push back against Cillian, "to sword-fighting in the Fade."

"Not _entirely _in the Fade," Cillian replied, "but—" He twisted abruptly out of their lock, refocusing into a swift jab—then overbalanced as Arahel stepped back into the waking world, leaving Cillian to flounder through their entirely corporeal body. "Very clever," Cillian grunted.

Arahel flashed him a grin. "Thanks."

Cillian swung wide as he solidified to join them, catching Arahel's hasty block with a powerful blow that sent them staggering back. As Arahel struggled to keep their balance, Cillian phased right through them, re-solidifying in time to knock their legs out from under them, slamming Arahel face-first to the ground. "Fuck," they muttered, spitting out a mouthful of dirt.

Cillian stood a few feet back, sword dangling lazily from his hand as he watched Arahel push themself into a sitting position. "Need a hand up?" he asked, holding out his free arm.

Arahel narrowed their eyes. "I don't know if I trust that hand to be there in five seconds," they said.

"I'm hurt," Cillian said, with a smile that said otherwise.

They began to fall into a rhythm—a give and take, parry and thrust, dancing across the silk-thin barrier of the Fade with increasing confidence. Arahel's steps were the surest they'd ever been; and from the bright, elated look on Cillian's face, they were almost certain it was the same for him. It was unreal how much they'd missed that feeling of power rippling across their body; the whisper of the Fade on all sides; magic tugging at their form as they siphoned off vast quantities of mana into that brief blurring of worlds. 

Although, after ten minutes or so, Arahel was already beginning to feel the strain of that _vast mana drain._ "Can we—" Arahel started, barely managing to dodge a wild swing from Cillian, "please—" they staggered back, holding up a hand. "Mercy," they huffed between gasping breaths, "I'm a little... out of practice."

Cillian leaned forward to brace one hand on his leg, breathing equally hard._"You're_ out of practice?" Cillian wheezed, eyes crinkling in amusement. "Da'len, that was... some of the best sword-fighting I've seen... among the people."

Arahel gave a laugh that turned into a hacking cough, fighting to catch their breath. _"Dalish don't fight with swords!"_ they protested, and Cillian made a noise that sounded like a giggle.

"And we don't dance across the Fade," he grinned, "so I suppose that makes us experts in our field."

"Guess so." Arahel flopped down onto the ground, letting their sword fall down beside them; Cillian followed suit, lying back with his arms behind his head. There were clouds scattering their way across the sky now, though its blue was no duller than before—brighter, even, for its lack of green tint. "But we used to," Arahel murmured, and Cillian tipped his head over towards Arahel.

"Hm?"

"We used to do _all_ of this."

"Ah. Yes."

The sounds of Skyhold floated around them, finally piercing the edge of Arahel's conciousness as they began to relax. "You've really never met another? Not—?"

"Not in all my years, no. I would be surprised if there were indeed any still living who remembered such times." He gave a quiet huff, eyes turning back to the sky. "Our people have lost much over the years."

"Yeah," Arahel whispered, images of Fade ruins flickering through their mind—vast libraries of half-empty shelves; crumbling statues strangled by creeping vines; silent empty fountain basins full of dust and debris. Broken, even in their dreams.

Cillian seemed to sense the melancholy turn their thoughts had taken—or, simply uninclined to mope, he added: "But even I have not encountered _every_ Dalish clan out there. There may well be other such knowledge preserved by a Keeper more inclined to it than your own. After all," he said, glancing at Arahel, "before today, I thought myself the only one to practice the Dirth'ena Enasalin."

"True," Arahel agreed.

Cillian reached out to pat Arahel's shoulder, though from their odd angle his hand ended up hitting the side of Arahel's chest. Arahel stifled a soft laugh. "All is not lost yet, lethallen—until the last of us is cold in the ground, there will be others here to carry on our traditions."

"Like waving a sword around and going places we shouldn't?" Arahel said wryly.

Cillian smiled. "Precisely."


End file.
